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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135178">when the hunger is all that holds you together</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alethephobia/pseuds/alethephobia'>alethephobia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(minor) - Freeform, Character Study, Could Be Canon, Dream is a manipulative dick but goddamn aint he interesting, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Gen, The Prison, basically sam asks some questions and gets cryptic ass answers he doesn't really want</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:08:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,583</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135178</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alethephobia/pseuds/alethephobia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can’t possibly be happy here.” Sam finally manages, words slipping from his throat in a harsh whisper. “Not after getting so close.”<br/>Dream just smiles. He still fucking smiles, zen personified. Sam has begun to believe that his porcelain mask is more out of courtesy for others than any sense of personal insecurity.<br/>“Well, I am.” the man says, and Sam cannot tell if the edge in his voice is certainty or anger. </p><p> </p><p>or, sam asks questions he shouldn't. dream doesn't seem to mind.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; Sam | Awesamdude, Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF) &amp;; Sam | Awesamdude (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>95</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>when the hunger is all that holds you together</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hiiii :) i just think the dynamic between sam as warden and dream as (temporarily?) caged quasi god is rlly interesting. hope u enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After a certain point, Sam knows it’s intentional. </p><p> </p><p>It takes about two pages worth of ‘<em> Dream tried to swim in lava’ </em>popping up on his UI to finally realize that the prisoner isn’t trying to escape. </p><p>He had been on high alert since the pings began, scrutinizing every structural failsafe in the building for something he could have missed during construction. He was confident that this behemoth of a containment cell would hold anyone-- his speculation as to whom had landed rather squarely on Technoblade during construction-- but Dream had <em> paid </em> him to do this. Dream had orchestrated the entire soaring, ominous crescendo of the prison, paid for in stacks on stacks of netherite. Sam, despite himself, had been unable to fully stomp out the voice of concern in the back of his mind, the voice that insisted that the man <em> had to have a way out </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Dream had never seen the plans for the prison. Sam was sure that he’d glanced over the architect’s shoulder once or twice, but never long enough to decipher his scribbled notes through calculations and coffee stains. Even if he retained every glance he’d taken eidetically, the idea had always been that knowing the layout and machinations of the place were ultimately inconsequential. Sam could hand every single member of the server detailed architectural plans and they could do <em> nothing </em>to get in, and certainly nothing to get Dream out. </p><p>Knowing every nook and cranny of the prison just meant coming to his prescribed conclusion; the one he’d tested over and over in his own hand: </p><p>Escape is impossible. </p><p>No amount of knowledge could save Dream from that simple fact. </p><p> </p><p>Still, when the death messages halt, he breathes an unintentional sigh of relief. The respite is short, but it’s sweet, and Sam uses the half-hour interlude to drink some more coffee, sharpen <em> Warden’s Will, </em>and answer some messages from Puffy about the egg. As funny as it may sound, being inside the massive obsidian structure made the Eggpire, and all of its unknowns, seem as distant as another world. </p><p>He briefly imagines Bad trying to convince Simon to let him bring the egg onto Hypixel, and it almost makes him laugh. </p><p> </p><p>The message pops up right as he’s clearing the mirth from his lungs, preparing to retrieve the small helping of raw potatoes allotted to the prisoner daily. While he was building, Dream’s specific request for raw potatoes had confused him at first. Not particularly cruel or damaging, just… strange. </p><p>When Tommy showed him old footage of Technoblade’s Potato War, he understood a bit more clearly. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dream whispers to you: Sam I burnt the clock </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Sam just stares at it. Of all the questions that bubble up in his chest, the one that emerges victorious into his UI is simply <em> why. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You whisper to Dream: Why did you do that </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He waits, and an answer doesn't come. A quick page through of diagnostics confirms that there is, in fact, one less object in the cell. </p><p>“What the fuck, Dream,” Sam mutters under his breath, and drops four small potatoes into his inventory. </p><p>After a fleeting pause, he sighs, opening one of the smaller chests sat near his lectern. While acquiring an inventory’s worth of daytime clocks had seemed redundant when he built the prison, Sam was beginning to suspect that Dream’s request may have been more on the money than he’d initially thought.</p><p> </p><p>He makes the journey through the prison in a half- automated haze. The passages for bringing food to the cell are almost entirely different from the ones used for visitation. Less grand, less complicated, less cryptic. Just hundreds of feet of narrow obsidian passageway, the occasional mostly-hidden checkpoint, and the quiet sound of Sam’s own footsteps. When he built this portion of the prison, he had felt rather claustrophobic at times. Slowly closing in a sloping passage of black rock felt more like digging his own grave than he was comfortable with.</p><p>Actually, Dream might have helped with this portion of construction. He had, in every pragmatic sense of the phrase, dug his own fucking grave. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>When he finally steps into the cell, he’s almost disappointed to find it exactly the same. The item frame is empty, but other than that, nothing has moved. Nothing has changed. Dream gets to his feet when Sam walks in, but other than that, the black room doesn’t seem to register his presence at all. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi, Sam.” Dream says. Sam hates the casualty in his tone more than anything. </p><p> </p><p>“Here’s your clock,” he sighs. “Don’t make a habit of burning it.” The circular golden object makes a pleasant click as it slots back into frame, and Sam can’t resist spinning it with a deft gesture between his index finger and thumb. Dream just looks at him, mildly expectant, arms dangling limply at his sides. <br/>Feeling strangely seen, Sam opens his inventory and balances the potatoes on the edge of the lectern, one by one. He had neglected to build in a table before the prison was occupied, and now it seems too kind to add anything to this particular monster’s cage. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.” Dream says. Sam just nods roughly, feeling his tongue rasp against his throat like sandpaper. He watches as the prisoner picks the nearest root vegetable up and smells it, biting into it after a moment of contemplation. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you going to stay?” he asks around a mouthful of food. “I haven’t had a visitor in…  a long time.” </p><p> </p><p>Sam swallows in tandem with the man’s first bite. </p><p>“Bad was here yesterday.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream just looks at him. </p><p>“Ages.”</p><p> </p><p>Sam is the one to break the eye contact. He has no Enderman blood, not like Ranboo, but something about this particular gaze makes him want to peel off his own skin. It’s like Dream has no interest in looking <em> at </em> him, just… into him. One layer short of past him. Like his presence is only barely better than the obsidian wall behind him, nothing more than a mildly pleasant distraction. Sam sincerely wishes he could find offense at the sensation, but mostly he just wants it to <em> stop. </em></p><p> </p><p>He opens his mouth to say goodbye. End the contact. Sever the uncomfortable thread connecting Dream’s eyes to the inner facet of his skull.</p><p>What comes out, instead, only serves to perpetuate it. </p><p> </p><p>“Why are you lying to them?”</p><p> </p><p>Dream actually blinks at that, the pressure inside of Sam’s cranium momentarily letting up. </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>Annoyance pings in his throat next, replacing the apprehension with an emotion the architect is much more suited to deal with. <em> Don’t play dumb, asshole.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Tommy. Bad. I can hear you when you talk to them, you know.” When Dream doesn’t respond, Sam takes the silence as leeway enough to keep talking. “You- you don’t even sound like yourself when you’re talking to them. I mean-- ‘good behavior’? Acting- content and shit?” </p><p> </p><p>Dream smiles. “Well, I am content here. I have… I have my books, and the clock, and you.”</p><p>Sam almost retches. Something about being something that Dream <em>has</em>, something he possesses, feels entirely too powerless for the situation the two of them are in. </p><p> </p><p>“No, you’re not.” Sam tries. “You’re-- I mean, you sent this entire server into calamity. You almost <em> won.” </em> Dream nods, and Sam has to pause to steady his own breathing. </p><p> </p><p>“You can’t possibly be happy here.” Sam finally manages, words slipping from his throat in a harsh whisper. “Not after getting so close.”</p><p>Dream just smiles. He still fucking smiles, zen personified. Sam has begun to believe that his porcelain mask was more out of courtesy for others than any sense of personal insecurity. </p><p>“Well, I am.” the man says, and Sam cannot tell if the edge in his voice is certainty or anger. </p><p> </p><p>The silence is deafening. It’s all Sam can do to prevent himself from careening backwards into the wall of molten rock behind him. </p><p> </p><p>“I do wish people visited more often,” Dream sighs, his voice cutting through the tension like he doesn’t even <em> know </em> it’s there. “Strange how that works. You cut all ties and suddenly no one will visit you in supermax.”</p><p> </p><p>Sam doesn’t respond. He just backs towards the lava, bracing himself for the fall. </p><p>Dream takes another bite of the potato. </p><p> </p><p>“You weren’t exactly right, Sam.” he says, right as the lava begins to singe the back of his hair. Despite himself, the architect halts. </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I almost won.” </p><p> </p><p>His blood runs cold. </p><p>Dream is looking at him, vision piercing and cruel. Sam has to wonder if this was what exile was like for Tommy, feeling this <em> pinned </em> and <em> helpless </em> and <em> vulnerable.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“But I’m not done yet, you know.” Dream says. He smiles, and <em> god </em>, Sam has never felt so fucking cold with the power of millions of tons of obsidian at his back. </p><p>“No, I’m not done yet.” </p><p> </p><p>Sam lets himself fall. The searing pain of burning alive is markedly better than the frigid helplessness in that fucking monster’s eyes. </p><p> </p><p>He wakes up with a shout, alone in the glossy halls of his own design. He has a sinking feeling that his prison may not be the ouroboros he thought it was. </p><p> </p><p>And, as the tingling from the last respawn fades, he forces himself to acknowledge that his power over Dream is as impermanent as the tides on L’Manberg’s shores. Frustrated, he pulls up his UI.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You whisper to Dream: I’m not replacing the clock again </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dream whispers to you: It’s already gone. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed, please do leave a comment. they make my day every time. </p><p>fic title is from the song 'January 31, 438' by The Mountain Goats.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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